In the room where she had slept the night before, she pulled out a bag and repacked the few items she had brought from home. She ignored the clothes he had bought her and even stripped down to her bare skin to discard his fancy underwear. She wanted nothing from him. In fact she wanted nothing more to do with him ever.
‘Kyria Metaxis…’
Stamitos, Lysander’s security chief, was crossing the hall when she appeared. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’d like to go to the village. I’ll drive myself.’
There was a tiny instant of hesitation before Stamitos insisted on carrying her bag for her and personally showed her out to the garage block, which contained an entire line of cars. She was eager to make her departure before Lysander realised that she had gone. She asked if a ferry service to one of the bigger islands ran from the harbour. The older man told her that the ferry would be there early the next morning. The most easily accessible car in the garage was a low black flashy sports model, with a name she didn’t recognise. Chucking her bag into the passenger seat with alacrity, Ophelia extended her hand for the keys.
‘Let me drive you, Kyria,’ Stamitos suggested, looking worried. ‘It’s a very fast car.’
‘I can manage.’ Ophelia jumped in, adjusted the seat as best she could and reversed the car like a rally driver.
The afternoon sun was strong in a bright blue sky as the car roared throatily down the road, speeding by lush woods on one side and the sea on the other as it sparkled in the sunlight. She would rent a room in the village for the night. Absorbed in reckoning whether or not she had enough cash, she rounded a corner and had to slam on the brakes hard to avoid goats on the road. The back wheels went into a skid. A massive tree swam into view and, like a slow-motion horror replay with screeching metallic sound effects, the car grated its length on the trunk before coming to a halt just past it.
Her heart was thumping as if she had run the marathon. Shaken but unhurt, Ophelia jumped out and raced round the bonnet of the car to get a look at the damage. She groaned out loud. Dented and badly scraped, the once glossy paintwork of the passenger side was now a dim memory. She wondered how much the repairs would cost and, in Lysander’s immortal words, decided that she didn’t do regret. At least all the goats were alive to skip around another day and Lysander would stay popular with his neighbours. She had used the art of thinking positively to get through all the worst times in her life, she reminded herself with determination. Why had she lost that habit virtually the same day she had first met Lysander?
She drove on to the village and parked beside the harbour taverna, which had an accommodation sign. A bunch of men were playing backgammon and chatting in the shade of a giant walnut tree. Silence fell when she went up to the bar and requested a room. A waiter noticed the vehicle outside and shouted something. Everyone had to know that it was Lysander’s boy-toy car; no doubt the damage had been noticed and they were all making appallingly basic jokes about woman drivers. An outburst of whistles, gasps and comments followed. She could feel her face burning and wished she had abandoned the car on the road. The motherly woman behind the bar asked if she was all right and offered her tea. It was a relief to be shown up to a charming room with a wood floor, a brass bed and pale curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. Feeling overheated in her denim jeans and top, she decided to freshen up in the shower rather than sit and wallow in a misery she refused to acknowledge…
Lysander, who was proud of his absolute control over his temper, saw the yawning space where his Pagani Zonda had been and loosed an anguished groan, raked his fingers through his black hair and almost punched the wall. It was less than three days since he had become a husband, and his wife had left him already. Left him. Marriage was much harder work than he had ever imagined it would be. Instead of doing what any normal bunny-boiler would do and cutting up his suits, Ophelia had walked out and he’d watched as she’d driven off in his favourite car. For a male accustomed to constant female pursuit and adulation, such an excess of retaliation was a severe shock. A woman had never left Lysander before, although he had given many women good cause to do so. He was in alien territory. When had a random trace of perfume become proof of extra-marital sex? Why was Ophelia always looking for a way to leave him and escape their marriage? It was bloody insulting! Why had he picked the only woman alive who wasn’t happy to live in luxury on a beautiful private island?
He drove two hundred yards down the road and ground to an emergency stop when he saw the tyre tracks across the verge and the black paint slashes on the tree. His stomach lurched inside him. She’d had an accident and nobody had told him! He raked down to the harbour, stopped by the Pagani and leapt out.
The old men below the walnut tree waved and called out cheerful greetings.
‘My wife?’ Lysander demanded, striding into the bar but already reassured by their manner.
Unimpeded rage roared back through him again in a dam-burst of energising force when he learned that she had taken a room. He took the stairs two at a time and rapped on the door.
After her shower, Ophelia had wrapped herself in a towel and lain down on top of the bed to keep cool. She thought it was the tea she had been promised and opened the door. Dismayed by Lysander’s appearance, she fell back a step. ‘What are you doing here?’
Even that question was an affront to Lysander in the mood that he was in. He studied her with lacerating force. Her golden hair was tousled, her creamy skin flushed and her ripe curves were covered only by a small pink towel. His view of her full rounded breasts and shapely legs was not one that he would have liked any other man to enjoy. That it bothered him annoyed him, for he had never cared what his lovers wore or how much other men looked at them. He had never been a possessive man. Indeed when it came to women easy come, easy go might have been his motto.
‘You should’ve asked who was outside before you unlocked the door,’ Lysander told his wife flatly. ‘Get dressed.’
Pale blue eyes evasive, Ophelia retreated as far as the bed. ‘I’m not coming back, Lysander. We fought all the way to the altar and we’ve fought continually even during the very small amount of time you’ve spent with me since we got married. I’m getting on the ferry tomorrow and I’m going home.’
‘I will not allow it.’
‘No Neanderthal tactics,’ Ophelia warned. ‘I’m being sensible. Take me to court, bankrupt me, whatever. It won’t get you anywhere because I don’t want your money, I don’t even want my inheritance any more-I just want my life back.’
Lysander dragged in a deep shuddering breath. Her strained eyes and steady intonation telegraphed sincerity and resolve. Her flight wasn’t a cry for his attention; she was deadly serious about leaving him. Ferocious tension leapt through his big powerful frame. For the first time in his adult life he felt close to being out of control. Rage was licking round the edges of his every thought like a dark threatening shadow and it unnerved him. He always knew exactly what he was doing, but just at that moment his next potential move was shrouded in mental fog. ‘You can have a life with me.’
‘I don’t want to be rude or start another argument, but life with you is hell.’
Lysander went rigid. Her slightly apologetic tone hit him like an accompanying slap.
A silence that pulsed with undertones hung in the air between them.
Ophelia shot Lysander an anxious glance, her delicate features tight with apprehension. He realised that she meant every word and was afraid of his reaction. As though he were some kind of domineering bully likely to push her around. And possibly lift her up, carry her out to the car wrapped in a sheet and sort out their problems within the privacy of his own four walls. His lean brown hands clenched into fists of restraint lest he prove her right in her suspicions. He didn’t like what he was feeling. He didn’t like the strange effect she had on him, the bizarre way she infiltrated his thoughts and hijacked his intelligence. He wondered if her emotional excess was contagious and decided to concentrate on basic facts.
‘You’re actually staging a walkout because you caught a whiff of perfume on my suit?’
Ophelia reddened at the sardonic intonation he employed and straightened her slight shoulders. ‘Yes.’
His shout of laughter made her flinch. His brilliant eyes assailed her in blatant challenge. ‘Don’t you realise that after that interview you gave, I couldn’t possibly sleep with another woman without it making headlines? You’ll soon find out if I have an affair,’ he forecast with derision. ‘When you said you were living a fairy tale and I adored you, it was like hurling a challenge at the paparazzi. The media attention will be relentless. They’ll watch me day and night when I’m off the island in the hope of catching me cheating on you. Sex scandals sell newspapers.’
Ophelia stared back at him in consternation, for that possibility had not occurred to her. At the same time, however, he was telling her that she had misjudged him, even if he was doing so in a cynical manner that ensured he did not have to actually defend himself or plead innocence. Her head swam a little as she grasped that all-important fact: he hadn’t been with another woman. Of course, she had already decided to leave him and whether he had been unfaithful or otherwise shouldn’t influence that decision. But, for an alarming instant, she couldn’t think beyond the fact that he had stayed loyal to her and she could not deny the tide of relief flooding her.